


I Will Stand Sentinel (At Your Grave)

by Pandemic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Natasha and Steve Bromance, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Being Self-Sacrificing Too Damn Much, Steve Rogers Feels, Team Bonding, Team Feels, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandemic/pseuds/Pandemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He fought for so long, and the world he died protecting no longer exists, replaced by one where technology is precedence over human contact, and instead of asking for a dames hand to dance boys will call them sluts and other names Steve can’t bear to pronounce. He watches the world around him, so full of lust and blood and speed, and it terrifies him that he is no longer sure whether he’d die tomorrow for it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Follow You Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> _"I have galaxies beneath my bones and I will love you until the stars burn out."_

It takes a lot to injure Steve.

Advanced healing has its perks, one being that even if he practices throwing his punches against a sandbag to the point his knuckle wrappings become red with blood there is no scarring, and by the time breakfast rolls around with the other Avengers no one is any the wiser.

Well, he says no one, but from the way Natasha often eyeballs his hands and watches his face, he has a feeling she knows. After all, she does know everything.

The unfortunate part of the advanced healing is that, well, no one knows how it works. There are no men like him who he can ask, or case studies he can read over. He is the original, the one and only and unfortunately the one S.H.I.E.L.D. test endlessly to see how far they can push the bar. So it’s practically impossible to know what hit will kill him – and one day it _will_ kill him. He’s not immortal. No one can cheat death. No matter how hard he tries.

Steve doesn’t have a death wish, or at least he doesn’t think so. He is the first one to throw himself into the worst of a fight, because when Thor’s not around he knows that whilst Tony may have his suit and Banner has the Other Guy and Natasha has her knives and Clint his arrows – it is him who can take the biggest hits. He _wants_ to take the biggest hits, because his logic is that he could not stand to see any of his teammates on an operating table. He has no ties, no family, no one he is going to leave behind heartbroken and widowed. He already played that card back in a plane trapped in ice. Sure the public might mourn him, but in the way that he’d be a common news segment and a “oh that’s such a shame” passing comment.

So that being said, when he sees the 20 foot tall monster they are fighting in Central Park raise a rebar towards Tony’s suit he doesn’t even hesitate to run interference in between. It is not a death wish, _it’s not_ , it is just the rationale of ‘my life is less important than that of a million dollar man who is the only face of clean technology and has Pepper and Rhodey and Happy and people who care for him’.

So when the metal goes through his stomach, he has a brief moment of “so that’s what it feels like to die” and smiles at Tony who has flipped his visor up and is shouting something that Steve cannot hear over the roaring in his ears, not even really aware that blood is pouring out his mouth, before the world goes dark.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck were you doing?” are the first words Steve hears when he wakes up, eyes fluttering open. Tony is sat by the bed whilst people bustle around them. By their uniform, Steve can assume they are hospital staff, rather than angels, and he isn’t in heaven but in fact some medical room at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Which he’s a little disappointed about, if he’s honest, he was looking forward to a stiff drink that he’d actually feel and a welcome platter upstairs.

Tony’s fists are clenched, knuckles white. “Cap, you can’t just throw yourself in front of every villain we face and hope one makes a hit that renders you dead!” his voice cracks on the last word, right hand flexing. Steve’s surprised at the anger, their relationship has never been the easiest – one started on angry words and old memories could never be anything but difficult – but he didn’t think his own variation of the sacrifice play warranted such an emotional reaction.

“I was just looking out for the team.” He says, voice rusty and croaky from lack of use and blood dried on the roof of his mouth. Tony, being Tony, realises this and hands him a glass of water without Steve even having to ask. Their hands brush, and rather than flinch away from the contact Tony briefly closes his eyes and reaches with his other hand to hold onto Steve’s. The touch is quick, not even long enough for Steve to react, before Tony appears to recharge and open his eyes.

“Yeah well, I’m the queen of self-destructive behaviour, can’t have you stealing my spotlight.” He grins, and Steve doesn’t comment on how that smile seems forced, because they both need this right now, the humour, as Steve sits wrapped up in gauze and bandages and temporarily blind in one eye.

Later, Tony will tell him of the silence in the city, the people who crowded in front of televisions watching the news desperately and exchanging stories of the times Steve had helped them, the globally trending #SaveSteve tags on twitter, the shaky Youtube videos of children stood crying watching the news reel in Times Square, and the frantic way the newscasters relayed any scrap of information coming their way on his condition. But right now the words remain unspoken and instead they awkwardly dance around the fact mere hours before he had a meter-long piece of metal sticking out his chest.

 

* * *

 

When Steve is giving the all clear to go home a week later, the house is subdued. Clint gives him a one-armed hug that lasts a bit too long for it just to be a “welcome back”, Thor has _tears_ in his eyes, Bruce speaks up about helping Tony strengthen his Kevlar without damaging the flexibility of the suit and Natasha offers him the first cup of coffee, gracing him with a mouth that trembles around a smile.

Tony is silent, which is unlike him, and only speaks up to agree with Bruce.

“I’ve been thinking about getting in touch with Reed, seeing if he can give us some information about adapting the synthetic fibres within the Four’s suits.” Tony goes for nonchalance – as if Steve’s well-being isn’t something he is invested in all that much, but Steve knows Tony well, and Steve would bet his shield on the fact the genius has already emailed Dr Richards about the very same thing. Waving off everyone else, Steve limped up to his room and collapsed onto his sofa.

It would be funny how quick the team has slipped into domesticity if it wasn’t so tragic. After the battle of New York, they parted for a long while and Steve wasn’t sure if the Avengers Initiative would in fact simply fade into a failed experiment, one that just couldn’t stick when so many unknown entities were involved. But what they do, saving the world, is quite a niche pastime, and there is only so long you can _pretend_ (for that’s all it is, pretending) to be normal before you long for your own kind of people.

It didn’t take long for the entire team to move into Stark Tower. Steve was one of the first to arrive, looking for a place to stay in New York when his sad little 70 year back pay ran out. Despite the fact the bank account had many more zeroes than Steve had ever seen before, money doesn’t stretch nearly as far as it did, even for one as frugal as him.

Upon arrival, he found a parking space in the garage with his shield’s symbol painted in the middle already there for him, and he hasn’t been able to pause for breath and take the bike out for a spin since.

Clint was the next to arrive a week or so later, eyes haunted and red with Natasha close behind nursing a broken collarbone and a mean-looking scar above her right eye. They don’t talk about what happened in the interim, but the whispers and gossip that haunt S.H.I.E.L.D’s corridors of Black Widow dropping her cover in order to save Hawkeye don’t go unnoticed. Thor drops in whenever he can between Asgard and New Mexico – his shoulders often drooped and expression broken. No one ever asks even though they all know a man with green eyes and an inferiority complex is probably at the heart of it. It took Bruce over a month to decide to join them, and even now he still practically sprints down to his safe-room in the basement at the first sign of an argument.

Each has their demons they like to pretend don’t exist. Steve’s have brown eyes and a wicked attitude and in his nightmares they thump and beat at the ice as he stares wordlessly from beneath it. He thinks that’s what terrifies him the most, the fact that in his nightmares he makes no move to attempt to help them break the layer between them – just watches Bucky or Peggy or even Howard sometimes scratch and scream at the ice until it’s stained red with blood.

 

* * *

 

The next time it happens, they are fighting a dragon in the middle of Times Square. Thor is flying around, booming about how it is an unworthy opponent and he will make it rue the day it landed on Midgard, so clearly this beast has been sent by Loki for him to be in such a good mood. Their relationship seems a complex one, based on how much one antagonises the other, but Steve does not question it. He knows that the familiarity in a strange world probably soothes the demi-god, and if that means fighting side by side with him against a scaly foe, so be it.

However, it is Steve who pushes Natasha out the way and gets thrown into a wall in her place. The bricks shake and what was probably an already weak structure trembles and falls, crushing Steve under it. Steve has a moment to laugh, the sound echoing and relaying around the comm before going silent.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t do that again Cap.” Natasha speaks quietly, meeting him at the door as he gets released from medical, face grey.

Steve’s probably the closest to Natasha, if only because they often cross paths on the way to and from the practice room. Steve hides his bloody knuckles from her and she hides the scores of knife wounds lacing her skin from when she’s gotten too close to a flying blade. He’s not sure if the fact his first real friendship is based on pretense is a good thing, but he’ll take it anyway.

But right now she is upset with him, and it’s the first real emotion he’s seen from her. It saddens him that it’s not a happy one.

“I won’t. I promise.” The smile he forces feels hollow on his lips, and from the look he gets he doesn’t think Natasha believes him. He doesn’t believe himself, considering the fact the fight is still on permanent replay in his mind, and he can’t even bare to imagine Natasha being crushed in his place. He’s the super soldier and half of him wonders whether making the sacrifice over and over again will eventually force him to feel something.

Natasha grabs his arm and looks down at his knuckles, still red raw from the sandbag earlier than morning before the fight. He doesn’t like her look of pity.

 

* * *

 

The final straw for everyone, he supposes, is when they are dealing with Doctor Doom’s tantrum in lower Manhattan. The Fantastic Four are on holiday, taking some well-deserved rest in Tahiti, and so naturally the Avengers are called in to deal with the madman’s latest invention. Steve seriously doesn’t mean to do it, but when he sees Doom waving around an extension of his arm that _bristles_ with electricity he steps up to bat and takes the brunt of a blow that was meant for Clint. The current passes through him, and for a brief moment he feels like he is _burning_ before the spasms take over and he falls to floor.

It’s sad because at this point he’s not even trying to play a hero, he’s just too weak to be standing on the other side of the window in medical.

 

* * *

 

“I have been asked by the group to have a chat with you Captain, do you know why?” Nick Fury’s voice is one Steve could go his whole life without hearing ever again. It manages to sound patronising, world-weary and respectful all at the same time, and Steve hates it.

“I don’t know Sir.” Despite the fact that on occasion, Steve can’t stand this man, all full of false platitudes and hollow half-truths, he was still raised to be polite. A skinny kid from Brooklyn who has nothing going for him has to cultivate a reputation on his irreproachable manners and his attitude, and so even though he tries he can’t force himself to drop the Sir at the end of every sentence. _Ever the soldier,_ he thinks wryly.

“They think you are …unhappy.” Fury’s voice is confused, of course it is. He’s S.H.I.E.L.D. These guys didn’t know what to do with the Man Out of Time, panicking and shoving him into a room with forties memorabilia and magazines expecting him to blow up if they so much as showed him a tube-top or Wikipedia web page. They have no clue what to do with him, his situation is unprecedented – there is no rule book, no set of guidelines or protocols and that scares the hell out of them all. They don’t understand why a man who is perfect in every physical way could possibly be suffering mentally because they see the abs and the super strength and then see photos of him before and assume he should be perfectly happy.

“Just doing my job Sir.” He sidesteps the actual query with ease, not sure he can lie his way through that one.

Fury sighs, and in that moment Steve sees a man who has taken on the sole weight of this project and yet is watching it fall apart beneath his very eyes, “Even so, I have been recommended to bench you for the time being. You need time out of the field.”

 

* * *

 

The problem with an idle comment, a muttering made in passing, is that is very hard to wish something out of existence rather than create it in the first place. Thoughts take root like trees in the back of Steve’s brain, and they scramble for purchase against the rocky crevasses of his mind. So when things get complicated, when technology and culture seems so far and yet so stunted from what he would have assumed, it is easier to imagine himself out of existence than to understand it.

He fought for so long, and the world he died protecting no longer exists, replaced by one where technology is precedence over human contact, and instead of asking for a dames hand to dance boys will call them sluts and other names Steve can’t bear to pronounce. He watches the world around him, so full of lust and blood and speed, and it terrifies him that he is no longer sure whether he’d die tomorrow for it.

Steve packs a bag that evening, clothes folded and filed into his rucksack with a military precision that was drilled into him all those years ago. He avoids the rest of the group, embarrassed at how his actions must have been so loud for the rest of them to be worried. He’s not angry at them, he can’t be, and it is the team’s duty to look out for each other. He’s just disappointed in himself, frustrated he couldn’t be a strong enough leader.

He makes his way down the garage, treading as silently as he can, which isn’t all that quiet considering he is a six foot super soldier, and walks towards where he parked the bike all those months ago. When he finds the spot empty, the painted Captain America shield taunting him from the concrete, he flips out.

And it isn’t a curse word and angry shout flip out. The emotions that have been bottled up inside come loose and explode through his body. It’s a punch through the wall and screaming until his voice cracks flip out. An earth-shaking, tear the place apart flip out. Steve didn’t realise he had so much anger inside of him until he’s standing holding the debris of his rage in his hands observing the wreck he’s made of the place. So many people assume him to be calm, quiet and rational. They forget he used to be the skinny kid from Brooklyn always looking for a fight, and ready to punch his way out of each one.

“Cap?” a voice sounds from behind him, and he whirls round to face it. It’s Tony, standing there awkwardly watching him with what looks like fear in his eyes. Steve instantly feels a wave of guilt threaten to overwhelm him.

“Oh god Tony I’m so sorry.” Steve voice breaks over the apology, raw from screaming, “I’ll pay for the damages. I can’t“. Steve doesn’t know how to finish and falls to his knees. Tony darts forward, hands out to grab him, but only clawing at thin air before he lowers them to his sides.

“You kidding me? That’s a drop in the ocean for me, you should have seen what I did to the place with the first attempt at a proper Iron Man suit.” Tony joked, and leaned down to clasp Steve’s shoulder, “Come on Cap, why don’t we go get you some food.”

They make their way back up the stairs together, and before they enter the kitchen Tony claps Steve’s shoulder once more and squeezes.

“Steve, this team cares about you too much to fall apart on us now. Not when we’re just getting good.” He smiles slightly, awkwardly even, and knowing him as Steve does, showing emotion other than sarcasm and wit is probably difficult for him, which makes Steve appreciate the words even more. He throws an arm out and gives Tony a one shouldered hug.

“Thanks Tony.” He speaks soft, oblivious to the fact that the genius’ face reddens slightly.

It takes him a while before he realises that’s the first time Tony’s called him by his first name.

 

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t eat as much as he should. With a metabolism like his, S.H.I.E.L.D. had advised him to be eating over 12,000 calories a day. The reason he doesn’t heed the recommendation is apparently, according to the psychiatrist S.H.I.E.L.D. employs, due to a latent form of PTSD. She loves to tell him over and over again that _clearly_ it’s a coping mechanism. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s wrong. He’s still the skinny kid from Brooklyn who was always taught to stretch a meal, and so he can’t help himself from taking smaller portions and after the team eats he’ll stay up until midnight picking at the bones until he has enough to salvage for another two or three meals.

Because of this he tends to try eat alone, snatching a sandwich or piece of fruit here or there and then excusing himself from dinner early, rather than obsessively staring at the portions people take, ready to save whatever is left. On the field, he is the embodiment of a team leader, but at home he’s still the fish out of water who hasn’t a hope in hell of understanding half the cultural references Tony, Clint and even Bruce drop in conversation. He figures its best to save them the bother of having to explain every sentence, and the awkwardness of retelling and dissecting a joke just so he can understand it, by simply not showing up.

To the majority of them, he’s still “Cap” and he sure as hell hasn’t earned the right to be called “Steve”.

So when Tony pushes him into the kitchen where the whole group are sat round a massive spread of nachos, tortillas and fajitas sprawled across the table he doesn’t know what to do. They all look up when Steve enters, and Thor is the first to beam, a look slightly at odds with the massive black eye he is sporting – though it appears to be healing as the minutes go past.

“How fantastic it is that you are here my friend,” Thor’s voice, for once, is fairly quiet but full of sincerity, “I was worried I would have to carry the burden of eating this entire feast on my own shoulders – not a hard task of course – why once when we caught our first Tribekerak we feasted on its flesh the same evening and had a feast that lasted over a week.” He smiles, and Clint punches his arm good-naturedly.

“As if big man, I worked up a right appetite today flexing my guns to impress the ladies.” He jokes, and Natasha rolls her eyes, Bruce huffs a laugh, and the awkwardness that hovered in the room shatters.

“I need to be invited to one of your ragers Thor, they sound right up my alley.” Tony comments, and upon Thor’s look of confusion, groans. “You have no _idea_ how hard it is when I am this fantastic to be stuck with two people who don’t understand as an audience.”

“Especially since the other’s don’t _want_ to understand Tony.” Natasha’s voice is dry and Clint grins at the look of slight horror on Tony’s face.

“I’d normally retort, but I’m scared you’ll cut off my head and eat me like you do with your other spoils of war.”

Steve listens to the group chatter away silently, sitting side by side with Tony and keenly aware that the man is watching his every move with a look of concern on his face. Every so often their shoulders bump as one or the other reaches for another helping of nachos. Steve would be lying if he said he didn’t subconsciously lean into the touch. Clint makes it his personal mission to smear Natasha’s nose with sour cream, an endeavour which only gains him a growl and a face full of guacamole a second later. Bruce is sat chatting to Thor trying to explain how microwaves (“Midgardian sorcery!”) work, and every so often Tony chimes in asking for Asgard ale in return for their knowledge.

Steve doesn’t talk once, just watches the others, and is thankful for the contemplative quiet. It is there, sat round the table with the only people he’s met since waking up after the ice who don’t expect him to be anything other than what he can be, that the super soldier finally begins to try to heal.

 

* * *

 

The first time they are called out, minus Steve, he has to sit on his hands to prevent marching out with them. He instructs Jarvis to keep him informed on the action whilst he punches the sand out of a practice bag in the gym. By the time Jarvis tells him they are on their way back, safe and sound, sweat is blurring his vision and three broken sandbags are spread-eagled across the floor. Unwrapping his bindings, he pads upstairs to find Tony stumbling into the kitchen, face bloody and one eye swollen.

“Holy –“Steve doesn’t finish, sprinting across to hold the man up as he goes to fall to the ground. Lifting him into a chair, he grabs an ice pack from the freezer and holds it gently over Tony’s forehead, who winces as it’s applied.

“Jarvis, in what world is this safe and sound?” He growls up at the AI, tone then turning apologetic when he addresses Tony “I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”

“I’ve had worse.” Tony, as ever, tries to crack a joke, though it falls flat in the otherwise silent room as they remember the experiences that have led Tony to experience ‘worse’.

“How are the others?” Steve questions, hating the fact he wasn’t there to watch out for his team.

“Fine, Clint’s sporting a lovely purple bruise across his back. Bastards had _tentacles_ \- can you believe it? Loki has a seriously fucked up sense of humour.” Tony jerks as Steve gently presses a hand to his forehead.

“Just checking your temperature.” Steve reassures him, leader mentality firmly in place, “So Loki sent them?”

“I assume so considering how Thor kept roaring about how he throttled one of their ‘kin’ as a toddler. Surprisingly didn’t do well to calm them down.”

Steve laughs softly until he catches Tony’s eye. The man is watching him with a look so intense Steve could almost drown in it.

“So-“

“Steve-“

They begin at the same time before stopping. Tony grins and the moment is gone. “You go first.” Steve offers.

“I was just going to say we missed you out on the field today.”

Steve sighs. “I missed being out there.”

Tony’s face is kind, and soft, and when he speaks his voice is a quiet whisper, “Let me describe it for you.”

The two sit, heads bent, and talk quietly until the sunlight burns through the window.


	2. Do Whatever Just To Stay Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it’s not the fact he was just completely floored by an extra-terrestrial beast that has him pausing whilst the battle continues around him, but the fact that in that last moment Steve didn’t want to die and that is such an alien thought to the man who had nothing left to lose because all his friends are dead and gone he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. He instead grabs Tony’s metal arm and pulls him close and grins right up into his face.

The next time they are not so lucky, and one of Clint’s arrows fail to deploy the rope that would swing him to safety, and so instead he falls ten storeys. According to the doctor, he was ‘lucky’ to only break a leg and fracture two ribs. They have to reset the leg in order for it to heal correctly, and hearing Clint’s screams Steve doesn’t quite understand where in this scenario they see the luck. He stands in solidarity alongside Natasha, whose face is pale and whose hands shake until he reaches out to grab a hold and squeeze.

His eyes burn as his brain taunts him with the alternate scenario where he could have been there to take Clint’s weight.

 

* * *

 

The nightmares are particularly awful that night, the image of Peggy and Bucky trapped beneath the ice, bodies unmoving and eyes unseeing still burned into Steve’s retinas. Head aching he goes down the gym, assuming he’ll be undisturbed considering the sun hasn’t yet risen.

An assumption which proves incorrect, as Natasha is already down there, throwing knives. With each throw she groans, and every time it is off target she screams angrily. For a woman normally so silent, not giving away so much as an eyebrow quirk, it’s extremely out of character, and Steve slightly hesitates before opening the glass door.

Natasha whirls round, knife raised, before relaxing her shoulders.

“Oh, hey Cap.” She murmurs, and Steve thinks it best not to comment on how her eyes are an angry red.

“Can’t sleep either?” Steve asks, and is met with silence, Natasha eyeing him up, probably taking in the fact his forehead is still damp with sweat, and his eyes wild.

 “Want to spar for a bit?” she asks, the emotion she was displaying before gone and voice monotone. Steve nods, and they take up their places on the mat.

At first, Steve is afraid to hit her, the manners drilled into him as a boy still fresh, and he hesitates to land the first punch. Natasha makes it easier though, when she lands a roundhouse kick to his face so hard he can taste blood. She doesn’t apologise, and from then on they engage in a dance of flying limbs and staccato sounds of bones meeting flesh.

When they mutually call it, their chests are both heaving from the exertion. Natasha is sporting a wicked bruise across her right eye, and Steve’s missing a chunk of hair from where Natasha grabbed hold and pulled. Natasha grins, teeth bloody and Steve can’t help but bark a laugh at how ridiculous the pair must look.

“Thank you Natasha.” He murmurs, truly grateful for the Russian being there. The anger and guilt that was threatening to consume him when he came downstairs has dissipated, all the aggression channelled into their sparring session.

“I am angry.” She says, blunt and with no emotion. “I am angry at myself that Clint fell, and that I did not see it coming. But we cannot be angry for things we cannot change, do you understand? You cannot take on the weight of the world and hope to not wear yourself out Steve.” her voice is quiet, as if she was trying not to spook a skittish foal.

“How do you _stand_ it though?” Steve blurts out, frustration and exhaustion clouding his voice, “How can you stand to watch anyone suffer?”

“The same way we do when we all watch you nearly die on us each time Steve.” Natasha says sadly, “We don’t.”

 

* * *

 

After leaving Natasha, Steve sits in the kitchen for a while, watching the sun slowly reach up into the sky, and thinks to himself.

“Captain Rogers, if I could ask a favour I would be most grateful.”

Steve still, after all this time, has to resist the urge to jump every time that polite English voice speaks from around him. Tony has told him time and time again that it’s not in the ceiling, but he can’t help staring at the light fixtures when he replies.

“What’s up Jarvis? And call me Steve.”

“Mr Stark hasn’t left his workshop since arriving back this morning and my monitors tell me he isn’t performing at optimum - protocol set out by Miss Potts dictates I should call in someone to quote, “get his ass out of that bloody place”, endquote.”

The AI sounded amused, if that was even possible? He’d have to ask Tony. “Don’t you worry Jarvis, I’ll get him out of there.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Once Steve was armed with proper ammunition (a steaming cup of Italian roast in one hand and a sandwich in the other) he padded down to the workshop. The walls to it were glass, so he stood and watched Tony work, glad of the brief interlude.

The workshop fascinated Steve, in a way you are always curious about the things you don’t understand. Tony had once tried to explain to the Captain the processes and technology involved, but Steve had faded out mid “interface and calibration” speech to teach Dummy how to give a good solid handshake instead. A trick, Tony had muttered later, the machine wouldn’t stop attempting with everyone.

In moments like this Tony reminds him of his motorcycle. All humming, lithe energy, not a part wasted or for show. The man is wearing a tank top, stained with grease and oil and sweat, jaggedly cut around his arc reactor. _“Big man in a suit of armour. Take that away and what are you?”_ he remembered spitting at him in the moments where he was Captain and Tony was Stark. With the benefit of hindsight, he felt a wave of shame and guilt over those moments in the Helicarrier, especially when it was Tony who made the sacrifice play, and it was Steve who cut the wire, who closed the portal believing that he’d lose the brilliant man to space.

Tony is everything Steve isn’t. Steve is like an actor, hand him the material and he could play the part of super soldier to a t but Tony is director, producer and scriptwriter all at once, creating and moulding and inventing without a second thought. There is something about the genius that burns too fast, too hot. A spark and magnetism that draws everyone to him like a moth to a flame. Of course he is stubborn, wilful and arrogant but he is also selfless, sarcastic and the first to throw himself into a fight.

Keying in his access code, which despite practice he still couldn’t help but rapidly fire out in case the pad that appeared in front of him dissipated whilst he was still typing out the digits, he stepped in as quiet as he could.

Which apparently, due to you know, being a 6 foot tall wall of muscle (Clint’s words, not his), isn’t all that quiet. Tony’s head jerks up and acknowledges Steve’s presence with a grunt before returning to his holograms.

 “Yo Steve what’s up?” Tony’s voice is heavy with slightly manic and rough with exhaustion.

“I come bearing gifts.” Steve smiles, and Tony grabs the proffered coffee and sandwich with fast hands.

“Rogers you are a God.” He murmurs in between gulping down the drink so fast Steve’s surprised he doesn’t burn his mouth. The silence that follows isn’t so much comforting as it is awkward – he’s never known Tony to be so quiet. Watching as Tony turns back to whatever he was working on before Steve entered, he clears his throat and begins to speak.

“So – uh – what are you working on?” he asks, inwardly cursing at how _stupid_ he must sound.

“Ah few things, really.” Tony’s voice is quick, rambling, “Tougher armour for you – currently I have to sacrifice the manoeuvrability for the durability but I’m sure I’ll find a way around that. Better arrows for Clint – can’t have him fall aga-“ he goes quiet, face stormy, before turning back to his work and throwing his hand out violently (and Steve still can’t get over the fact that the images projected move and twist with Tony’s every move) for the arrowhead projected to increase in size.

In that moment, Steve doesn’t see Tony as a genius or a billionaire or a playboy or a philanthropist because the Tony before him is just a man.

A man who sees his errors whenever Steve takes a rebar to the chest because his armour wasn’t strong enough or when Clint doesn’t manage to arrest his fall because his arrows weren’t quick enough or even when Natasha’s martial arts movements don’t protect her because her suit wasn’t loose enough.

Just a man and as flawed as the rest of them. Steve’s heart tightens and he doesn’t want to examine too closely why, not yet.

“Tony.” Steve speaks gently, “Why don’t you come with me and get some sleep.”

The man’s shoulders droop, and he practically falls asleep where he stands. “What are you talking about, sleep. Gods like me don’t need sleep.” The joke is slightly slurred and Steve grins.

“You’re not using that excuse because I happen to know a demi-god who sticks to his bedtime routine better than a two year old.” He chides, and Tony chuckles. The laugh makes Steve’s chest practically burst with pride that _he_ put it there.

“Careful Cap, I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

 

* * *

 

Steve takes Tony up to his room, and makes to leave when Tony grabs his shirt. “Wait,” the man blurts out, and Steve freezes. Tony seems to struggle for a minute to find the words, “Clint’s injuries. They’re my fault.” He says sadly, and Steve starts to shake his head, “No! No really, it’s my fault. I designed that arrow. I mapped out the probability of failure. It’s my fault he-“his voice broke, and Steve’s heart nearly does the same in sympathy, “My work does **not** fail Steve. It doesn’t. I can’t allow it to fail. Fucking hell I sound like an emotional teenager – how are you so goddamn easy to talk to Rogers?”

Steve sits by Tony on the bed, hands hanging awkwardly in the air as he’s not sure whether to console the man physically or verbally. Going for the latter, he lets his hands drop. “No one blames you for it, Tony.”

He’s not sure what else to say really. Unlike some, he’s never been good with words. He’s not the one to make a fancy speech and win over the crowds (his bond sales don’t count). But he’s been in Tony’s position and _god_ does he know how it feels to have your failures displayed in front of your eyes taunting you with the abundance of alternative realities where you reacted faster, smarter, angrier, _anything._

“You don’t think I kick myself thinking I could have been under him as he fell?” Steve asked.

“Don’t be stupid Steve, you can’t go around trying to save everyone because you have a chip on your shoulder.” Tony bit out, and Steve wants to raise the anger to retort, but God he just feels so _empty._

“And you can’t kick yourself whenever a piece of your technology doesn’t pull off.” And Steve finds himself quoting Natasha of all people (and how is that for irony considering she is the quietest of them all), “We cannot be angry for things that cannot be changed, Tony, we can only strive to make them better next time. I can only hope to duck faster.” He tries for a grin to lighten the mood and makes to leave. He imagines Tony is shattered and wants to be left alone.

What he doesn’t imagine is Tony grabbing a hold of his shirt again and speaking fast “Thanks Steve. For everything.”

“Anytime Tony.” Steve says back, and means it.

 

* * *

 

“FUCKING WHEELCHAIRS!”

Steve pauses on his way to the practice room when he hears a frustrated yell from down the hall. He walks up to the door the noise came from quietly, and knocks. When he gets no response, he wanders in to find Clint struggling to get from his wheelchair to the sofa. He darts over to help, but the movement is arrested when Clint growls.

“Don’t you dare Cap, I can do this myself.” The archer attempts to pull himself upright, wincing every time he jostles his legs, and Steve watches for a few awkward minutes before he sighs and picks up Clint bridal style.

“Hey – HEY GET OFF ME.” Clint starts slapping his chest, and Steve just laughs before depositing him as gently as he can onto the couch.

“Natasha would break your legs all over again if she saw you struggling this much and she’d probably not hesitate to kill me if I didn’t help.” Clint’s shoulders droop, face weary, before visibly shaking himself and brightening.

“Yeah yeah, Nat would just be jealous that you were trying to seduce me by showing off your strength.” Clint joked, and Steve spluttered.

“I wasn’t – I was just –“

“Who is trying to seduce who?” Natasha has somehow slipped into the room whilst Steve and Clint were holding conversation without them realising, and at this point Steve isn’t even surprised – the woman is all grace and poise and stealth.

“Steve wants me for my sleek and beautiful body. Can’t blame him, I am gorgeous.” Clint preens, before Natasha slaps him over the head, “Ow, Nat, rude.”

“Well I’ll catch you guys later I guess.” Steve speaks awkwardly, assuming that now Natasha is here to care for Clint, he’s no longer needed.

A fact proved wrong when Clint shakes his head, “Nah man, the party’s only just starting. Spirited Away or Howl’s Moving Castle?” he holds two DVDs aloft, bringing them up from goodness knows where.

“Which one do you think I’ll prefer?” Steve asks, and Natasha shakes her head, tipping her face forward to hide the slight smile Steve knows is there.

Clint shoots him an incredulous look, “No I mean which one do you want to watch first?”

By the time they are settled, and Steve’s fetched the popcorn, Clint is back on the sofa – sprawled across it. Natasha has brought through some hairbands, saying she’s “saving them for later”. Which turns out to be correct as before the opening credits have even began to roll, Thor wanders in and screams slightly girlish delight at the prospect of a “night of these moving pictures together as brethren!” and immediately takes the space between Natasha’s legs on the floor. She begins to comb through and braid his long hair, and the demi-god who by day wields a hammer and holds lightning to his beck and call sits quietly with his eyes half closed as the spy gently brushes through his hair and he ends up having a Russian braid down one side of his hair and several hairclips down the other. The room goes deathly silent when she starts singing softly, a Russian lullaby, her voice clear and crisp and pure, and when she finishes Thor reaches up and grabs hold of her hand tightly.

Bruce wanders in, hearing the noise, and sits on the sofa beside Clint, letting Clint rest his head on the scientist’s lap after a few whines of “pleaseeeee”. Every so often he begins writing equations down with his finger on the armrest, before Steve reaches into his pants pocket for one of his various sketchbooks, and grabs him a pencil from the table. Bruce smiles his thanks, and when he can’t stop that brain from working writes numbers madly into the margin to keep him calm.

It is only once Spirited Away finishes, (which, when Steve says he didn’t really understand it and was that a cultural reference or animated documentary like Wall-E? Clint laughs and in between tears says no one just _understands_ Ghibli movies) and they are about to begin Howl’s Moving Castle that Tony stumbles in.

“Party without me? Bitches.” He smirks good-naturedly, “I still think we should go out clubbing, especially now Clint could probably bag us some girls out of pity for the cripple.”

Clint flips him off, “Shut up Stark and either come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off.”

“Testy.” Tony retorts, but comes to sit down beside Steve on the lounge chair. It’s meant for one person, really, and not two especially when one is a super soldier, but they make do. Neither one wants to complain, and if their arms brush and legs accidentally intertwine more than once, it’s not their fault. Steve has to calm the racing of his heart, fearing it is so loud the whole group can hear it, and misses the look that Clint and Natasha give each other whilst watching the pair.

 

* * *

 

The next time they are called out, it’s originally minus Steve _and_ Clint, which forces Fury to make the decision to take Steve off the bench and back out onto the field. A decision he may have been slightly ~~bullied~~ cajoled into by Steve, but he won’t tell that to anyone. The thought of the team without him is nerve-wracking. The thought of the team minus two is inconceivable.

So they are fighting very strange animals that according to Thor are jorgenheim’s but to Steve look like massive eagles with four legs and scales in the middle of Queens. Steve’s letting the shield fly at every creature that so much as moves towards him whilst barking orders down the comm and feels so _alive_ with promise and potential that he could practically burst. He’s watching Widow jump on one of the animals from behind, Tony use his repulsors to turn one to ash, Banner take down two in one swoop of his wrist and Thor demolish four with a throw of Mjolnir and he feels so proud of this little dysfunctional family he almost takes his eye off the animals trying to kill them all.

And in that lapse of concentration a Jorgenheim batters into him from behind and forces the breath from his lungs. Spluttering, he looks for his shield and can’t find it – probably buried between another animal’s ribs, and for the first time as he watches the eagle-like thing rear up onto its hind legs he offers up a plea hoping the man upstairs isn’t calling his time.

He doesn’t get to find out if that’s the case as the monster gets thrown aside.

“You okay?” It’s Tony, voice evened out by the Iron Man suit (or at least that’s what Tony told him but he also told Steve District 9 was a documentary so he sometimes finds it hard to believe a word out of the man’s mouth). Nevertheless, Steve nods, advanced healing meaning he can now barely feel the hit that winded him so badly.

But it’s not the fact he was just completely floored by an extra-terrestrial beast that has him pausing whilst the battle continues around him, but the fact that in that last moment _he didn’t want to die_ and that is such an alien thought to the man who had nothing left to lose because all his friends are dead and gone he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. He instead grabs Tony’s metal arm and pulls him close and grins right up into his face.

“LET’S FINISH THIS.” He roars, and bounds off with the rush of adrenaline headier than any drug coursing through his veins leaving the man in metal still standing stock still.

“What just happened?” Tony sounds a little dazed over the comm.

 

* * *

 

The quinjet cruises through the sky silently, and Steve stares through the windows at the beautiful sight of New York set alight. Behind him sit a genius encased in a metal moving suit, a demi-god who wields lightning like he would a knife, and the smartest man he’s ever met whose alter ego could kill him in fell swoop but instead has his back in every fight.

It is beyond anything he’d ever imagined and he could have never guessed this would have become his life when he first volunteered for Project Rebirth, but for the first time, he doesn’t think he’d go back, hit the reset button, even if he was offered it. And it is that thought which makes him turn to Tony.

“Can you catch people in that suit of yours?” he asks, although he already knows the answer. He saw the news, saw Tony manage the impossible and save thirteen people from a falling aircraft without even blinking an eye. He’s filled with a wave of contrition and guilt at ever thinking this man anything but the first to lay on the wire and he’s so far beyond Steve that it isn’t even funny. It’s like Steve’s running up the stairs whilst Tony is in a high speed elevator to the top.

“What do you mean? Steve?” Tony’s voice is worried, more so when Steve hits the button to open the back hatch of the quinjet and breathes in the cold air with a grin.

“Steve we’re too far to parachute down.” Natasha’s voice comes from the front, where she’s co-piloting alongside Clint, and Steve laughs.

“Who said anything about a parachute?” And shooting a grin at Tony, he jumps with a shriek.

The air hits him like a slap, stinging his uncovered cheeks and making his eyes water. Clamping his hands to his sides, he falls faster than a stone and the wind whistles in his ears.

“What the _hell_ are you playing at?” Despite the voice normalizer, Steve can hear the fury, and he barks out a laugh.

“You took your time!” He shouts, trying to be heard over the shrieking wind, and Tony clamps a hand round his own and they fall for a moment in perfect synchronization.

“Look at it! Isn’t it beautiful?” Steve shouts, grin so wide it nearly splits his face and he whoops with the sheer _joy_ of being alive and here and saving the world like he always wanted to.

Tony is uncharacteristically silent as they fall to the ground together.

 

* * *

Tony is, as ever, hard at work in his workshop, and when Steve steps in he walks right through a hologram spanning the length of the room. It’s his armour, split into each individual layer of thread with a number and description for each part. With a touch of Tony’s fingers, or a spoken word, each individual part zooms in or out to his will.

He still doesn’t get the world today sometimes.

Tony acknowledges him with a grunt but keeps on working and Steve reaches for his sketch pad he keeps on the desk and the pencils stored in the top drawer. They sit in the quiet for hours, the only noise Steve’s pencil scratching against paper, occasionally peppered by Tony asking questions or opinions.


	3. Sometimes I Want To Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Steve’s vaulting over rubble and debris without even thinking twice, shouting and swearing down the comm for medical. He doesn’t even care if the other monsters have submitted, doesn’t have anything else in his sight but the dust falling in front of him and his heart sings Tony, Tony, Tony."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know and I'm sorry, I'm a terrible person.

It is of course Steve’s luck that when things are just beginning to look up something destroys the fragile hope that had begun to bloom in Steve’s chest.

They are fighting these monstrous looking animals in Queens, 50 foot high and look like they’ve been turned inside out with teeth that, individually, are the size of Steve. When they first spotted them, having been put on call by S.H.I.E.L.D, Bruce vomited on his shoes. They are the stuff of nightmares and Steve knows he will be getting no sleep for a while.

The shield is absolutely useless, he can’t let it fly in his signature move because it sticks to the animal’s bloody and broken skin and so instead he’s wielding a lamppost in one hand, swinging it hard enough to break bone and every time it connects the animal screeches so hard it makes Steve wince. He’s tiring though, the post a dead weight in his hand, and the animals aren’t falling as quickly as they’d hoped. The Avengers sluggishly advance, and by the time there is only three left each one of the team are absolutely shattered. Thor and Clint are working together to bring one down whilst Natasha and Hulk make another scream in pain, and Steve and Tony are solid in defense against the last. They work synonymously with each other, their moves mirroring the others without even having to think twice.

When the monster finally gives way with a shriek, Steve can’t resist looking round to grin at Tony, and in that moment of distraction, he misses the beast’s tail swinging round.

Tony doesn’t though, and flies towards him whilst screaming “STEVE MOVE!” down the comm and before Steve can even breathe he is pushed aside and Tony’s flung into the ground fifty feet away from him, making the ground shake until to Steve’s horror the building he thudded into gives way with a groan.

Steve’s vaulting over rubble and debris without even thinking twice, shouting and swearing down the comm for medical. He doesn’t even care if the other monsters have submitted, doesn’t have anything else in his sight but the dust falling in front of him and his heart sings _Tony, Tony, Tony._

He falls to his knees in front of the rubble that covers Tony and scrabbles at it, only pausing to rip his gloves from his hands when they hinder him. The skin splits and before long he’s painting each brick red with blood, and he thinks a fingernail has been torn off in the process, but thoughts in his brain are jostling for attention and he can’t think anything but _Tony oh my god Tony please._ Thor has joined him by this point, lifting great lumps of rock without so much as a shake of his arms, but he doesn’t even look up to acknowledge him.

When his hands _finally_ hit metal, he chokes out a sob of relief and works feverishly to remove the rest of the brick that covers Tony. Without a second thought he rips the face plate away like Thor did in the last battle Tony lay down on the wire and he’s only partly conscious of the fact tears roll down his face.

Tony’s breathing, but only just, and Steve knows better than to try shake him awake, unsure of what damage has been done and unwilling to remove him from the suit which might be _oh god_ the only thing holding bone in place, until the ambulance arrives. He instead just presses his forehead to Tony’s own, and clutches Tony’s head in his hands with a grip so hard it’s like he’s willing the serum to pass through by osmosis and he knows in that moment he’d sacrifice everything, go back to being that nothing special skinny kid from Brooklyn, if it meant he could see Tony’s dark brown eyes looking back at him.

_Because what good is the damn super soldier serum if it can’t save anyone but himself?_

* * *

 

“You are nearly pacing a hole in the floor my friend.” Thor’s voice, for once, is quiet as he comes to stand beside Steve. They are in the medical bay of S.H.I.E.L.D’s base, and it’s been two hours since Steve let go of Tony’s shoulder, surprised to note he’d left finger grooves in the metal. He turns to Thor, and he’s shocked by how tired the man looks. Thor has always seemed infallible, unstoppable, but the man in front of him looks shattered and broken. His hair hangs limp and greasy round his shoulders and his eyes are sunken, a nasty looking scratch across his face only just now beginning to stitch itself back together.

“Tony will pull through this.”

“How can you be so sure?” Steve’s voice breaks on the question, tone desperate because he _needs_ someone to tell him it is going to be okay, that he will still be able to sit amongst holograms and draw, that they can still have movie night, that he can still joke around with Tony about the fact he liked the Star Wars reboot better than the original. He needs the little things, because otherwise he might break apart.

Thor seems to struggle for words, “Your world is as alien to me as mine is to you, Steve. A hundred years is but a blink in our own timeline, and yet you humans are so powerful for the fragment of space you exist. Tony, he was not born of a god, of a king, and yet he wields his technology as confidently and powerfully as I hold faith in Mjolnir. I come from a world where what you call magic comes as natural as breathing but Tony commands the skies in his metal suit as easy as I do. Whilst I might not always be the most comfortable with the technology I come across in this world, I am impressed by it and I do not doubt they will bring Tony back.”

Thor pauses, unsure what to say next and Steve realises just how smart the man truly is. He manages to hide it well, behind words of grandeur and flowing capes, but he is just as intelligent as Tony or Bruce, if in a different way. This world is truly alien to him, but he accepts all the madness of Facebook or Phones with a smile and a demand to know exactly how it works (even if he gets frustrated at having to limit his speeches of glory to 140 characters on twitter). He likes loud music (watching Tony and Clint teaching him how to headbang was possibly the funniest thing Steve has ever seen).

Steve is almost ashamed, Thor has a better grip on Earth than he does.

“Tony will survive Steve, I am sure of it.” Thor, as ever, is honest and direct, not beating around the bush or hesitant to offer anything but a 50/50 verdict like the doctors Steve is beginning to loathe. He clasps a hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes, “He’s got too much left to give this world.”

* * *

 

The silence in the tower is deafening, so much so that Steve spends over an hour in the shower, letting the water thunder over his back until he’s numb and he can’t even feel the water needling his back, just so he doesn’t have to pace around the empty house. He misses Tony, so badly his heart aches and it’s like he’s forgotten how to breathe, how to function without Tony around to keep him steady and to keep him sane.

He idly wonders whether this is how Tony felt when the tables were turned, and he can feel vomit rising to the back of his throat even _thinking_ that this is what he did to the rest of the team. It’s like his heart has been squeezed of every last emotion but fear and guilt, and both of those sit so heavy it feels like the weight of Mjolnir balanced atop his ribcage. Without thinking, his hand rears back and punches the shower tile so hard it cracks underneath the pressure.

“ _Shit._ ” He curses, watching the water turn red beneath his feet with the blood running copiously from his knuckles, idly thinking about how Tony would have laughed upon hearing him swear. He stands there a while longer, staring at his knuckles as the flesh already begins to heal, knitting together and he feels sick. He’s nauseous at the fact he can piece together again so quickly, this nothing special, ordinary man, and yet Tony’s left unconscious on a hospital bed. He leans against the broken tiles for even longer, trying to regain control of his stomach as it tries to purge itself, before he steps out and shakes himself free of the thoughts circling round his head like water round a drain.

Towelling himself dry he sits on the edge of the bed, head buried in his hands, and the minutes drag into hours, which bleed into days, and before he knows it there is a soft knock at the door and his eyes are burning from lack of sleep.

“Steve?” It’s Bruce and Steve almost snaps, yells at the man to get out and leave him alone. He doesn’t have it in him to talk, to dance around the fact the man who practically brought them all together and took them into his home without a second thought is lying on his death bed and it is all Steve’s fault. _If only he had moved faster._

“You haven’t moved out of here in three days.” The words are spoken quietly, calmly, as if worried Steve will spook.

“That can’t be true.” Steve remembers visiting Tony only yesterday… it was definitely yesterday, surely? The days blur into one, monochromatic stretch in Steve’s mind.

Bruce’s eyes are kind, “Come on, you’ll be no good to us if you don’t eat. I’m surprised your stomach hasn’t put up much more of fight, any longer and they’d probably have to put you into a medically induced coma.” He says these words with no judgement, no anger, only in a tone you’d chide a child with. Steve feels guilt hit him like a two tonne truck _yet again he would have become a burden to these people_ all because of his stupid actions, and follows Bruce blindly downstairs.

* * *

 

Unlike what movies would lead you to believe, consciousness is not sudden, but a slow, pain-staking process that starts with fingers twitching and ends with eyes opening an hour later, by which point Steve’s nerves are shot to dust and his palms are full of half-crescent marks from his fingernails so sharp they’ve drawn blood.

Tony’s eyes open drowsily, as though he’s just awoken from a nap, and it takes a minute before they focus. The ache to touch, to reach out, Steve finds near unbearable. When they do, they dart around madly until they settle on Steve. Tony’s mouth opens and closes, as though he’s trying to find the words but can’t, and Tony appears more and more agitated as the words refuse to come.

The doctor pushes Steve out the way, syringe at the ready, and that just appears to anger Tony more, who begins thrashing and panicking on the bed, tangling in the sheets. Steve struggles for his own voice, unsure where he stands and overwhelmed with relief that Tony is awake. However when two nurses pin Tony’s arms down with force and have a syringe of sedation poised he jolts himself out of the reverie he was stuck in and strides forward.

The minute his arm connects with Tony’s, the man on the bed goes still.

“Ste-“

“Shh it’s alright, it doesn’t matter. You’re awake now. I’m here.” He waves the nurses away and cradles Tony’s hand in his.

“I’m here.”

* * *

 

For days, Steve does nothing but sit vigil beside Tony’s bed, everytime he opens his eyes Steve is there with hollow and sunken eyes ready to translate his every agitated half sentence. He shakes off the others, who at first try to get him to sleep, but end up just smuggling in high protein food and energy bars. They know of the determination of their Captain, they’ve seen it first hand, and it would take much more than a demigod, the Hulk and a couple of master assassins to move him from his position.

Most of the time though, Steve sits and talks. He speaks of how Thor attempted to cook a meal, but ended up coming to blows with the oven when it charred the turkey to a crisp, and so instead ended up sulking and setting up a campfire on Tony’s landing platform. He talks of how Natasha and Clint spent the morning after he was injured curled up on the sofa watching old reruns of Friends, so close together you could mistake them for the same person. He even mentions how Bruce has stopped writing on the back of his hands and up his arms to calm himself down, and instead talks aloud to whoever is there.

He speaks of their little broken family and halfway through a story about Clint’s habit of leaving his romantic novels round the house Tony reaches out and grabs his hand. Steve is so grateful for the contact he has to choke a sob, and he looks up into Tony’s eyes, feeling a crick in his neck from the position he’s assumed for the past week.

“Steve.” Tony’s voice is soft, slightly croaky with lack of use but Steve can’t help the rush of relief that courses through his blood at the fact Tony can talk, can finish a word.

“Tony?”

Tony shakes his head, “Steve.”

That seems to be the only word he wants to say, and Steve bents forward from his chair so their foreheads are resting together, and listens patiently as Tony says his name over and over with apparent delight.

* * *

 

When Steve finds himself staring at Tony’s chest as it rises with every breath, he gets blindsided by a realisation that clogs his throat with panic.

_He loves Tony._

It’s a realisation that sends hot shame running down his back, that sets his cheeks on fire and mind reeling. The feelings that have been burgeoning inside him refuse to be tampered down, and he can no longer excuse them as empathy, or concern for a teammate, or even awe. They refuse to lie dormant, and in a rush Steve remembers what these taboo emotions used to grant him. It brings back memories of back alleys been beaten and taunted. Of jibes in class and doctor’s visits that classed him as ‘diseased’.

His mind is screaming at him as these memories conjoin and form one echoing statement that is completely Tony and it’s like the man’s image has been burnt onto his retinas. They’ve sewn together in his mind and he can’t pull the stitching apart.

With every image of Tony, a word accompanies it.

The long and fine fingers carding through black hair. _Freak._

The wry smile that causes his laughter lines to crinkle. _Unnatural._

A joke murmured whilst Fury is talking. _Disgusting._

The wide shoulders and strong arms that often wrapped round Steve awkwardly to hug. _Sin._

Tony’s eyes.

_You are not diseased Steve, you are my boy._

His eyes, like spun gold and dark liquid amber.

_You’re a good guy Cap, better than me._

Steve wades through the murk of hatred and anger and ignorance and finds those those twin stars mapped out in constellations that he has charted and knows down to his very bones. He holds fast to their image like a lifeline in the distortion of spiteful words and rage. The amber beacons centre him, help him find his stability, and provide him with other memories. Memories of him and Bucky furiously grabbing any time they could together under the cover of darkness, of quiet kisses and nearly silent groans. Memories of his mother furiously wiping away tears before kneeling down and whispering fiercely (and the only time he ever heard Susan Rogers swear), _“The heart wants what the heart wants and no son of mine will be called diseased for something natural dammit!”_

These old memories seep into new ones, ones of Tony smiling and offering him a cup of coffee. Of them both sitting with their heads bent together talking in whispers. Of movie nights, sharing sofas and quiet words of commentary.

Tony’s eyes, liquid honey poured over just browned toast. Flecked starlight amongst the backdrop of the sun. Steve uses them as an anchor, holding fast.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a long time in the making, and is completely finished aside from a few edits I just need to run through. The rest should be up within the week. Please drop me a review or find me on [tumblr](http://ill-advised-acts.tumblr.com) as I love to chat.


End file.
